What Makes You Beautiful
by DeandSeamus
Summary: Dean and Seamus discover their insecurity, and then some. Deamus. Updated: Twoshot.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**__: I do not own Harry Potter books or films or anything associated with them. I also don't own One Direction or anything associated with their song "What Makes You Beautiful."_

_**A/N**__: It's a songfic without the song. I'm inspired by music every day, and it encourages me to write about my favorite boys, Dean and Seamus. This is a bit of a trial run; if you like this, feel free to request a songfic from either my list on my profile or your own music. If you don't like it, I eat constructive criticism for breakfast. It fuels me. So bring it on. _

_**What Makes You Beautiful**_

_He could see the insecurities lying just beneath the surface. Seamus acted. Everywhere, all the time, he oozed confidence, leaked charm and smiled like the sun. Even in the dorm at night, he'd never fail to impress, always be putting on a show, trying so hard to win over everyone around him. Dean knew, though. He knew that, although part of Seamus was genuinely expressive, he was covering for himself. He was hiding, fearful that anyone would see how ashamed of himself he was. _

Seamus had tried to get Dean out of his shell in front of others- it was something Seamus did very well, talking to anyone about anything, but Dean seemed to have no interest in it. It wasn't just that he wasn't interested, Seamus could see- he was uncomfortable. He'd looked into those honey-brown eyes and when the intensity of their stare had overcome him, he'd had to glance down, biting his lip. When he'd looked back up, Dean had returned to his sketch, and Seamus hadn't tried getting him to talk anymore. The sweet curve of Ginny's hair fell loosely across the parchment, and Seamus asked.

"Why are you drawing her?"

Dean hunched, automatically protective over his work, but forced himself to relax and look back into Seamus' eyes.

"Artists are drawn to beautiful things," he replied simply.

The gaze again overwhelmed him, and Seamus was forced to look away. This time, he hadn't looked back up. He didn't want Dean to see the wetness in his eyes.

Dean had turned his head around the doorjamb to the bathroom once- just once, and found himself unable to look away. There stood Seamus, towel around his waist, burning a hole in the mirror with the ferocity of his glare. Dean saw the tension and hatred in his best mate's face, but had no idea why. He'd stared at the broken image of his friend's frustration for a moment that seemed eternity, gazing at the fear and anger in his reflection until Seamus had run the water and splashed himself, prompting Dean to turn back to the empty dorm. When Seamus had come out moments later, fully clothed and hair tousled, he'd smiled, as he always did, and began nattering on about some aimless thing or other. Dean wondered. If something were wrong, surely Seamus would've told him? There would have been some sign, some mention of something different in Shay's life. Dean pushed it to the back of his mind, and listened as Seamus chattered all the way down to the great hall.

_Dean was shy. It wasn't a big secret, he was quiet, and mostly alone but for Seamus- and though when Seamus had cornered him about it Dean had simply murmured that he liked to watch people, Seamus was worried about his best mate. He knew how breathtaking Dean could be, and he saw it in his friend's face every day. How Dean's eyebrows would furrow and his eyes would flicker across the page as he created masterpiece after masterpiece, hidden away in his sketchbook. Only Seamus saw those drawings- having full access to your best mate's personal possessions __meant__ secretively searching through his private art once in a while- and he was rendered speechless. Even when he was alone, this was difficult to accomplish over his constant conversations with himself. _

_He sat there, staring at the gorgeous works, and bit his lip. He slipped the sketchbook shut, thinking of the way Dean turned his head to the ground whenever someone spoke to him, or even looked at him. He was so… alluring. The way he'd gaze up at you under those dark eyelashes, that __look__ that made Seamus feel he would burn red hot if he didn't look away. _

When Dean entered the dorm, he knew something was wrong. Seamus was lying on Dean's bed, which in itself was not an odd occurrence, but he was completely silent. The only motion was the perpetual worrying of his lower lip. Dean had walked in on Seamus holding a quiet conversation with himself so many times that he couldn't remember the last time he'd come in to see Seamus not speaking.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed his silent friend occupied.

Seamus didn't move, just stared at the canopy, repetitively nipping and releasing his lip.

"Seamus, I know something's wrong," Dean began again, "just tell me."

In response, Seamus' hand dug underneath the pillow and pulled out Dean's sketchbook.

Dean gasped, eyes going from the book to Seamus' face in terror.

"Dean," Seamus asked quietly, "why are there so many of me?"

Dean was flustered. He hadn't wanted this conversation, not yet, and he was trying to think of a million excuses when he saw the tears forming in Seamus' eyes.

"Shay? Seamus? What- why are you crying?"

As the tears dripped softly over his nose and ran down his cheeks, Seamus whispered something so quietly Dean had to ask him to repeat it.

"I said…. You told me that artists are drawn to beautiful things. How could you put me next to Ginny and everything else you have in here? How could you make me look like that?" He choked, opening to a page at random and pointing.

Dean was stunned. In his mind, he saw Seamus in the bathroom, clenching the counter and staring at his reflection in fury. He remembered the faltering smile and the shameful glances away when Dean had tried to look him in the eyes.

"You don't know?" he asked slowly, the realization fully impacting him for the first time, and he grasped Seamus' shoulders. "Hey. Look at me." He demanded, and Dean so rarely demanded anything that Seamus complied, exposing the fearful hatred for himself to Dean for the first time. "You are beautiful."

**A/N: **So this didn't come out how I wanted it to at all. I think it's pretty terrible. Oh well. Review if you agree, disagree, have suggestions or requests. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **So because I was asked to in _half_ of my lovely reviews, I am writing a follow up to What Makes You Beautiful. Hope you all enjoy! This is for youdon'tknowme06. Thanks for the encouragement!

**Part Two**

Seamus nervously fiddled with the bedclothes. Dean had been there beside him, encouraging him and whispering sweet reassurances to him since the moment he'd realized what Seamus thought of himself. Dean had begun to show him the drawings he'd made of him, and whenever he'd looked in a mirror he remembered the things that Dean had told him. Slowly, it was helping. The soft moments had taken the edge off the hard looks he'd shot himself. He was learning to look for the things about himself that were good. The things that Dean had told him were good.

But in all that time, Seamus had begun to notice things about his best mate that he'd never seen before. When he looked over before bed and caught Dean's eyes roving over him, in a way he'd missed when he'd simply wanted to hide himself as soon as he could. When Dean's lips would part slightly and his breath would catch and his eyes would widen when Seamus made a suggestive joke, where before Seamus had only searched for the smiles. He'd noticed that Dean's drawings held a light that only followed Seamus, and more and more of him were showing up.

He'd noticed that Dean was in love with him.

He thought back to the moment when he'd confronted his friend about the sketchbook. Remembered the fear when he'd asked why, why, _why _on earth he'd been considered beautiful. The relief. The gentle adoration that had accompanied Dean's words and the look in his eyes that Seamus now believed was unmistakable.

He'd thought, for a long time, about what he should _do_. He hadn't ever thought much about girls, but he hadn't thought much about boys either. He knew he loved Dean, his best mate, the one who had rescued him from himself. But could that platonic, friendly love turn into something so much deeper?

After more than a month of careful consideration, something Seamus was not, in most areas of life, disposed to, he'd made up his mind. But that didn't make him any less nervous as he swallowed past a lump in his throat. He was sitting on Dean's bed, waiting with Dean's sketchbook in his lap. This could either go very badly, or very well. He didn't know which he was more frightened of.

Dean pushed open the door to the dorm, calling "Shay?" as he entered. He stopped as his eyes landed on the Irishman, his position and the book in his lap.

"What's going on, Shay?" he asked cautiously.

Seamus merely waved at him to come sit with him. Dean did so, slowly, eyes still taking everything they could out of the situation. Seamus took a deep breath.

"Dean. You've always been here for me, even before I found this sketchbook and saw how you see me. You've shown me what you think of me, every day since we've met and I hope you understand how grateful I am for that. But I've never been able to return the favor. I'm not eloquent, Dean, and I'm not artistic. I don't know how to make you understand what you mean to me. Still, I've tried. And I really hope you won't kill me, because I did it in pencil so you can still use the page after you've seen it." And he put the sketchbook, open to the most recent page, on Dean's lap.

All Dean could do was stare. It was a stick-figure drawing, presumably of him, with curly black hair and a massive smile, holding a globe in one hand and a paintbrush- that he secretly thought looked more like a switchblade- in the other. It was surrounded by a zig-zag line, and there were a few little hearts surrounding it. Next to him was another stick figure who he assumed was Seamus, with messy lines for hair, a broomstick in his hand, and an exaggeratedly large heart bursting from his chest. There were dotted lines from the eyes across to the Dean on the page. After a while, he looked up at Seamus, mouth agape, eyes wide in astonishment. Dean had no words. Seamus gulped audibly.

"You… you pulled me away from hating myself, the way I did, and you've shown me that it's possible for someone to love me. I just… I wanted you to know I love you too." Seamus pronounced awkwardly.

Dean looked back down at the sketch, then back up at Seamus again. He raised his hand to Seamus' cheek, running his thumb over the high cheekbone, eyes shy and slow, looking at Seamus through his pounding heartbeats and rapid nervous breath.

"You mean the world to me. You have my world in your hands. That's why I drew that globe…" Seamus flinched slightly at the horrendousness of his drawing.

He knows it's stupid, he knows that in this moment, with Dean so close and everything hanging in the balance he should just shut up but his nerves make him keep talking until Dean's thumb brushes over his bottom lip, and drags it down, and Seamus is speechless. The pad of his thumb is so soft and Seamus can't breathe, let alone speak. He watches Dean's eyes follow the movement of his thumb from Seamus' lips to his chin, down his jaw 'til Dean's hand is cupping the back of Seamus' neck and he can hardly believe this is happening. They move together, and their lips are soft and an elated burst in Seamus' chest means that some part of him realizes how much this moment means. It's wonderful, not because his lips feel so good or because he can feel Dean's other hand raise to rest on his shoulder, or because somehow he feels Dean's waist beneath his own fingers. It's because of what this kiss _means_; Dean loves him, and Dean wants him, and he is never going to be alone again.

When they part, Seamus smiles shyly, and Dean grins broadly and lets his fingers drop to the sketchbook page to trace the stick figure drawing.

When, the next day, Seamus finds the book open on his pillow, his drawing outlined in ink, the hearts red and the lines black and the world blue and green, he is surprised.

When, later that evening, breathless and happy, Dean says "I wanted it to last forever." Seamus is, for the second time in his life, speechless.


End file.
